


A Lesser Clay

by caesthetics



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Apes & Monkeys, Bestiality, Captivity, Dehumanization, Fantastic Racism, Forced Crossdressing, Humiliation, I DID A LOT OF RESEARCH FOR THIS AND I'M NOT PROUD, I'll add monster types as we get to them, Lizards, M/M, Monsterfucking, Multi, Other, Porn With Plot, Public Humiliation, Ritual Public Sex, Size Difference, Somnophilia, Voyeurism, Worldbuilding, Xenophilia, but like super loosely, during the Goryeo period in Korea, is based on Mongolian adjacent setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:47:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27112837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesthetics/pseuds/caesthetics
Summary: Ilse's heard tell of one Khan Barsun Nidun and his hordesmen-- a people sustained by trade, theft and conquest. So, when his village is ransacked and Ilse is stolen alongside their goods, he'd expected no less than a world of hardship by their hands. What he doesn't expect is to what extent and how...Or, more bluntly put: A plot set in Fantasy Mongolia/West Asia/Siberia with a stupid amount of worldbuilding and also monsterfucking.
Relationships: Bestiary/Kidnapped Villager, Monsters/Unwilling Captive
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is incredibly horny and I am deeply apologetic. As mentioned in the tags, much of the worldbuilding is based on a combination of Goryeo period Korea and its invasion by the Mongols in the 13th century. I can't vouch for my own accuracy and there are a lot of fantasy elements that come into play, but an effort was made toward that particular ambiance.
> 
> Please review the tags before reading, thank you!

\- - -

The air is fresh with the scent of grass and mud when his sister takes his hand, bringing him close to her. It's completely unlike her, he'll realize. In the years since their parents' passing, Cho-a'll be the one to tell him that it's every person for themselves from this point forward—if she won't commit to marriage on their behalf, it's obvious that he owes her nothing too.

But, they're young enough that the possibility is far outside the realm of imagination, their world so large and filled with wonders that she'll insist on waking her brother to see it with her. Cho-a points to the horizon, the sky a wet and murky gray against the blackness of the mountain's shadow. "It's slow," the girl says, crouching them into the grass, "But if you watch carefully, you'll see the entire thing move."

A low hum reverberates, a breeze moving the grain that was their hiding spot and the streamers of Cho-a's earrings. When Ilse blinks, the icy bite of the tundra hurts his eyes, making it hard to keep them open. He'd dismiss it as a trick of the wind, the mountains separating and reforming and then coalescing back unto themselves. But, the hour passes and his eyes adjust, the darkness unmistakable in its recession-- a shift from high to low tide, the water leaving details of the land in its wake. Sand. Rocks. Driftwood. She turns to him when there's nothing left of it, dark hair whipped about her sharp and beautiful face. Her breath comes out in hot puffs like she'd held it this entire time.

"Dad says there's a king out there that'll pay entire caravans for them."

He shakes himself from the trance.

"Those mountains?"

"No _stupid._ Monsters. Can't bring 'em back dead though. Says it's worthless if he can't see them move like that." She stands, offering her hand.

Again, they're young enough to believe that Cho-a could manage that if given the chance. He's seen no one else from their tribe so watchful as her-- and in the days and weeks that follow, so adamant in learning how to hunt in spite her age and gender. He nods, understanding her completely.

At first, Ilse thinks it's ignorance to her strength and the bounty it could bring them.

But, adults are cautious for reasons that children cannot understand.

A monster was one thing. A man with so much to offer another altogether.

\--

Ilse stirs, his head throbbing beneath its own weight. It's all darkness as he orients himself, hands grasping outward to find something steady to prop himself up. This must have drawn someone's attention because a woman shouts and some shuffling follows. It doesn't sound urgent, even if the request comes in language coarser than his. The boy is fully aware that he's nothing like his sister, built for the solitude of scout's work over actual combat.

A torch's flame bathes the yurt in a wash of red, Ilse flinching at its suddenness. He withholds all other expression, lips pulled to an innocuous line, eyes downcast in deference to his captors. More words are exchanged and Ilse manages a few through the hard, tight knot set deep in his stomach.

Savage, sleep, food. Water, Khan and slave.

His ears go hot at that last one.

It was said that Cho-a was stupider than any of the creatures she'd dreamed of hunting, having declined a proposal of comfort for something as worthless as pride. She hadn't explained herself. The girl is iron made real, the fire of her youth contained by a body trained and eventually fortified by hardship. He didn't expect her to, not when he isn't sure what he would've done in her position.

His chin is brought up by the blunt end of some pole arm, his eyes meeting the smile of the one called Khan. This close, away from the blood and dust of their raid, the man's face is reminiscent of an uncle or father, not so far off how old Ilse's might have been were he still alive. His mouth is a little crooked from having been broken and set wrong and Ilse recognizes the laugh-lines around its corners, his brows and those dark and sparkling eyes.

His voice is low as he croons something else, bringing the spear forward so that Ilse remembers to keep from struggling so much that he brings pain unto himself. The stranger didn't seem like the type that would, but the boy isn't so naive as to judge a person's character by his face.

A wolf-like dog circles about the man's feet, a high whine for taking so long just staring at Ilse. He’s as rich as any king but it's easier to take than to barter. It's why he's here along with the rest of the village's wares, how these people are not only able to keep the man's monsters but feast like them too. The boy stumbles back as the pole withdraws from between the bars, the weapon swung back over the man's shoulders.

He makes a motion with his free hand.

Ilse understands "clean" and "dress," his cheeks burning at what must follow.

\--

Erhi’s seen plenty of his kind since her assignment to this tent; pretty enough to have captured the attention of some wandering hordesman and unlucky enough to have survived the journey to her. Their Khan has always made some excuse to the matter, that these savages enjoyed what was to come to them, having risen from the Earth of a lesser clay. It’s something her assistant is willing to believe, at least, approaching the boy once the man's taken his leave.

“He’s rather small, isn’t he?,” comes her observation. “...Think he’s done it yet?”

“If you’re so curious, you wouldn’t be asking me. Start the fire, I’ll handle the boy.”

The girl pouts as wood and cloth piled high into her arms. Si-chen’s strong enough that the weight doesn’t do much to deter her. One area to the next, her voice raised just so the conversation can carry forward regardless.

“I guess it doesn’t matter when they all end up liking it anyway. Animals aren’t picky like we are so it’s kinda pointless to think about that stuff in our terms, huh?”

“Mm.”

Erhi lifts the bar, locking the boy by the arms before he could even think of escaping. He’s as weak as a faun, the many tribes surrounding theirs considering it right and normal to allow their children to grow without working. Her fist buries itself into his stomach, winding him. Nothing breaks, but he folds forward when she turns his shoulder. Si-chen blinks, having returned to gather the kindling and flint.

“Hurry up,” she says, removing his tunic, his earrings, shoes and sash as one would plucking a chicken. “The rest of them’ll come later tonight.”

The conversation passes like this, Si-chen’s attempts to make the work less boring turned back to her with short responses, reminders to mind her work (and business). The first of the savages she’s helped prepare were interesting in their novelty, sedated with the herbalist’s blend of borage, honey and passionflower so they can’t do much to hurt them. But, for however passionate and scandalous the coming nights, the process has settled into something strangely routine. Another spoonful of honey, a period of wait to allow its effects to take hold and then another to fold the pieces of fat in their hands until it becomes slick and oily from the heat. Scrubbing, brushing, inspecting, so on and so forth.

This one’s from an area unmarked off the map, his people most closely resembling people far North of here. His language is a little funny when he mumbles it through his daze, light as a whisper and matching the softness of his hair. She gives up on talking eventually, her mind drifting to what things must have been like for him. He’s even prettier without all that dirt on his face, so she imagines he must have been highly sought after, some backwards prince or a noble who can't even fight. Or maybe someone else’s pet, for how fine and smooth the skin beneath her palms.

She smirks at this last thought.

Erhi motions to her and she helps lift the boy, patting the excess down with fresh sheepskin. They dress him up in some ceremonial garb pulled from a trunk of one of their larger huts, the other woman puzzling past the sashes and clasps to pass along the instruction. Si-chen considers it clown-like and too much for her taste, but she isn’t in the position to argue with either Erhi or their Khan, tugging his hair back to adjust its collar.

“You sure you won’t watch this one?”

“I’ve better things to do tonight.”

“Suit yourself.”

\--

Ilse’s heard and seen plenty back at home after Cho-a’s made him aware of how badly things could go for children without money and family to protect them... and it’s unfortunate that he’s become the same as them but. He’s alive, at least, his mind safely cloistered from the hardship of the physical world. If he could survive for however long he needs, the possibility for escape remains.

Ilse doesn’t know where he’d go. To his sister, probably, even if she’d told him not to look for her should they be separated like this. But, when he tries to find solace, he returns to that place and she is next to him, pointing to how the mountains move. His jaw clenches as another haze overtakes the pain, that sweet and bitter medicine spreading past his head and into cheeks, shoulders and limbs.

He struggles to keep himself from sinking so deeply into the blank world between sleep and waking, especially as these women handle him, rubbing all sorts of strange-smelling substances over his body. And he manages, just on that image. Because of her. Because of that.

The dress fits all wrong on him, the forearms so tight that they’ve decided to leave it hanging from his shoulders. It’s of an older style judging by the pattern, likely belonging to one of the families of the village’s center. He gasps as the sash is pulled tight, fabric tickling his waist as they shimmy the piece through the loops... and it’s embarrassing, wearing something like this, even if these people don’t understand it's reserved for girls on their wedding day.

Ilse is led as such, both women flanking his arms from the tent’s threshold and into their settlement. He stumbles over the train and the younger one says something to the older one with a brassy-sounding chuckle. His head turns, pulling his focus to their surroundings.

Soft in its edges, their path smells of smoke and fragrant wood, each yurt lit with by pit fire or torch. He catches the attention of some meandering Khans' people chatting about this and that, cheeks flushed pink from that week's bounty. Those eyes twinkle just as that man's had and Ilse thinks that it must be from the sheer pleasure of indulgence, a lifetime spent drinking and eating and laughing beneath the shade of night. He can't be the first prisoner afforded such an indignity for how they'll whistle or make faces at him before returning to the other... and his heart thumps at this. If there were others, he thinks, where had they gone?

The older woman tightens her grip, sensing his alarm, moves their procession to a tent large enough for their king.

\--

It isn't a bedroom but a circular plateau, raised just so Ilse realizes he's been brought to some kind of stage. The ground moves beneath him, the boy whipping his head around to find a wire fence separating the audience from their entertainment. They'd put in a lot of work just to have him killed-- but, one of the women has withdrawn, bringing a shackle that snaps with an iron click about his wrists, so it's only likely that he's underestimated their cruelty. The cuff and chain are heavy enough that Ilse knows they need him still and.

The gate closes behind him, his heart stuttering faster against his chest. The older woman takes her leave, the younger one seating herself on one of the benches. She settles her chin in her hands, idly watching him as one would a caged animal.

There aren't many people in-attendance, most coming in and out to see him like this, pointing to the dress, his face, his bare shoulders and to either laugh or needle at. The Khan's joined them at some point, having made an unceremonious entrance before finding his seat upfront.

He fumbles over his thoughts, the effort to keep himself standing without help taking as much out of him as his panic. If the Khan is to watch him instead of bedding him, it only meant that he is to fight: another villager, a trained soldier or a wild animal. And, should he survive, the process will repeat over and over and over, another obstacle added until death becomes inevitability.

The fence reopens, Ilse startling from it. A wave of quiet and "ssh's" passes over the yurt.

The bundle left with him is a few heads longer than he is tall, wrapped up in the groom's tunic made to match his red bride's dress.

\--

Khan Barsun Nidun gives his signal, every odd torch extinguished to set a more intimate mood. The way the boy looked at him, Barsun recognizes that it had been in anticipation of _their_ union-- old enough that he's heard stories of other khans taking their pick of the village beauties for their wives, attendants and pets. And his people were beautiful, the captive more an example of this than an exception with his large, doe-like eyes and smooth, nut-colored skin, covered sweet with little brown sun kisses.

But, Barsun had laughed at the thought in leaving the tent to see to his collection because it's been awhile since he's hosted someone so worldly-- two perhaps three captives ago, probably. The last one was wholly inexperienced, built up from other slaves before her initiation.

The creature emerges, dark and heaving from beneath the glossy fabric. Its eyes have dilated from their preparation, its movements erratic-- primal, in its hunger. One of the oldest in his collection, well-trained and with cycles as predictable as the wax and wane of the moon. It's not as gentle as their softer, warm-blooded creatures, variations of rodents and greater apes... but, no doubt pleasurable for how he's seen it work its partners. It crawls on all fours, so heavy that its short, fat legs squat with each step, stomach dragging sand lines as it approaches its mate.

The chain swings as he tries to fight it, arms locked by the wrists and leaving him just the ability to shout and kick. The man wets his lips as it claws at the dress, pulling the boy down like a crumpled, paper crane. It pins him by the shoulders, crouches low and tender to runs its milk-white tongue over the boy's neck. Barsun's sure that the rest of the audience doesn't notice that twitch of disgust for how easily he lets himself succumb to something so old and slow-moving. It’s how these people find pleasure, he’ll repeat himself, their intervention only hastening what comes naturally in the frost.

\--

Ilse's mind has gone blank, instinct overtaking thought when he'd tried to shove the monster off. But he's weaker than he remembers ever being, the shock pulling his nerves so taut they might snap. The tear exposes his leg to the grit, those claws grazing the skin deep enough to sting.

It withdraws its mouth from his neck to part his lips and Ilse revulses at how much it resembles a kiss. He beats his forearms against its chest, grinding the metal plates into the skin. But. There's laughter that follows for how the thing ruts over his crotch, hind legs jerking as it pants breathlessly into his ear-- tongue thick and slimy with saliva into what _really is_ a kiss. His only reprieve is that he can't discern what's being chanted and why, the growing shame already too much to bear as another layer of understanding comes to him.

The thing is pulled off of him, and the sash is removed from his waist, exposing his entire front to the blur of faces.

Ilse crouches over but is just as quickly thrown forward, shoved into a position one might take before a revered king. His head is raised by a grip at his scalp. He recognizes "lucky" and "wife" from that girl and is just about to muster their word for "please" when a weight is brought over his back, the tip of something wet and leaking pressed up against his ass. It embraces him with his forelegs when they back away, its leathery head nuzzling into the juncture of his neck and shoulder and.

He sobs as it enters him, arms and knees collapsing from the strain, face buried into the sleeves of his dress. Its cooler than how he imagines a person might feel with a smoother, longer cock that makes him shake from how deeply it takes him in a single movement. The thing shudders, rolling its body over his, basking in the heat of a warm body, the satisfaction of their joining. His own cock drags up against the ground with its thrusts, tongue lapping the side of his face.

It fucks him to a firm and indulgent rhythm that overtakes Ilse's will to struggle-- and their audience coos for how he's given himself properly to his partner, allowing it to show him the pleasure of love's consummation. They must have done something to either him or the monster that through the saturation of nerves, the wet strain of his lungs that it's started to feel as good as it does, the boy arching toward the creature than away from it. Sensing Ilse's cooperation, it tightens its grip over his chest, kneading the skin with a curl of its claws.

He gasps because its cock hits him at just the right angle with the movement... and Ilse doesn't recognize how high-pitched and needy his voice sounds when his begging to make it stop fades to begging with no subject or direction altogether... And it's too much, so much that when he reaches his orgasm, it burns through him, rendering his world hot and blinding in its whiteness as he remembers to breathe through the dust of the arena's ground.

The thing continues, mindlessly rutting into him, drawn by his warmth until.

He cringes as the tongue moves to his neck, and Ilse's claimed with a release that speaks to the creature's size and age-- seasoned by experience, having been used as a buck for many before himself.

\--

There's some clapping for the boy's performance, the ones in attendance present out of little more than morbid fascination, their display appealing to no one except. Khan Barsun Nidun closes his mouth, matching the expression of disgust and awe with that of knowing. He remembers his usual quips to the strangeness of the people of the desert and tundra plains, practiced time and time again, before he motions for Si-Chen to please clean the boy up and to keep him from the other monsters lest he lose control of himself.

"We'll pace him out," he concludes, "I'll review the collection for another compatibility."

\- - -


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a delay due to work stuff, but I got this just in time for the long weekend! Please mind the tags and enjoy.

The thing with lizards is that they're reliable, easily drawn by heat and needing little in the way of prodding to mount the evening's Chosen. Khan Barsun Nidun stands over his latest captive as he’s curled tight into himself, refusing all forms of food and drink in the days since his deflowering. He explains it as a symptom of withdrawal. Without a cock to fill them, these savages either grow so restless that they need to be tranquilized for their own safety or so despondent that they'd rather die than continue living without being fucked. But it's no worry; he's still so young that a few days without won't kill him, Si-Chen and Erhi and the Khan himself keeping the boy under close watch.

He thinks a hairier creature will suit him next time-- something with a longer, more elaborate ritual than fuck and done, perhaps a pack of two or three when he's grown comfortable with a single partner. The scaled creatures are easy after the initial shock of the idea and Barsun knows the boy is capable of more than _just easy_ for how beautifully he mewled, muttering phrases that he'd like to imagine mean "deeper" and "please" in his language.

He's done up in a dress the Khan has seen their women wear when visiting their trade settlements, the garment tightly bunched around the waist to flow like water about his legs. He’s beautiful, the fit presenting the illusion of curves on an otherwise slim body with spirally grains of gold that set off his coloration in a way the bride’s dress does not. He tugs the boy onto his back by the blunt end of his spear, pinning him by the shoulder. It's the same dazed look he'd given them when Si-chen and Erhi helped him into the garment, barely registering his own loveliness when they present his reflection. Barsun doesn't remember much of that tongue so he figures it's easier to just speak his own— albeit slowly, simply enough for even this savage to understand.

"Tonight." he says. "Again." One hand forms a loose fist, the other hand two fingers that curl into the hole. The boy shakes his head. He leans his weight into the pole until the movement stops. "Again," he reaffirms. "You" he points to him. "Like." And repeats the motion.

He stills, neither rejecting nor accepting the proposal.

"Lucky."

\--

Ilse's cried enough that he thinks he's drained his eyes of all its water. And when he'd managed to rest and his mind has returned to him, the body it occupies aches, cold and sticky and feeling nothing like his own. A part of him wonders if he's changed in a way his sister or the rest of his village might notice if they find him again. He flushes for the slickness they’ve left between his legs, how far stretched he's gotten that he can't even walk straight.

The man responsible for all of this leans in closer, having taking his honor and then adding insult to injury by mocking him, forcing him into another girl’s dress. He understands now that it’s purposeful rather than incidental, another means of signifying his place and use at their settlement. His heart burns with indignation, the hatred overwhelming. But, Ilse is also hungry and exhausted so the sentiment rings hollow, only managing a small gasp when the other man brings him up by the back of his neck.

The grip beneath his jaw is delicate as one might cup the cheek of a lover. A kiss is placed over his lips, a tongue slipping past his lips.

And it doesn’t mean anything if he doesn’t let it.

If he focuses on what’s real then he can pack these feelings away, never to remember them once he’s gone, far from here. The Khan tilts his head, deepening their kiss, his beard prickling Ilse’s bare face. When he breaks it, the laugh plays over his breath.

_Was that what you expected?_

Ilse resists the urge to wipe mouth of it. Pride is all-pretend anyways, a liability he can put to the wayside. His expression remains placid though his face is hot for another reason altogether, likely luminescent by the soft light of this yurt.

\--

Erhi averts her eyes as the Khan moves past her, never minding hers and Si-chen’s presence—the image of a cat that’s gotten himself in and then out of a bird’s cage. She’s told her children of what lurks beyond the horizon just waiting for their hordesmen to find and take back to them. Their favorites were always liked ones about monsters, especially the ones so large they might be considered mountains. He’d made it a point to bring such trophies back once he'd proven himself on the battlefield, a habit that Erhi initially likened to their prior lord’s love of books and the one prior's penchant for spicy food. People with their delights, however strange. She herself enjoyed a good bath when they could manage the logistics of hot water and oil.

It was however many summers later that she'd caught him one day, curled over himself by the corner of the animals' tent. His breath came out in hot puffs, eyes roaming up and down in full view of a panting wolf.

She retched in seeing the placement of his hands, the way he’d twitched as he squeezed himself, fingers slicked completely white.

Erhi doesn't know what more to make of it than that... but, she doesn't say anything before he approaches her, asking if she'd keep his secret even safer than she already has. He’d presented her the choice offhandedly though she understood its pretense. To risk being left behind or to take the reward of a beautiful tent and all the best cuts of meat for her family for however long she’ll answer his requests.

"Make him eat," the Khan says. "I've already gotten him awake."

It was obvious which of these was right.

She bows and mutters a "yes, my lord," waving for Si-chen to prepare the broth. The boy's chin is brought up with a jolt.

"Open your eyes. You'll spill."

The woman recognizes the semblance of understanding in all her years of doing this. His hair is disheveled— dark, but shining brown from the cut of light that light touches it. A ruddy dash of pink spreads across his cheeks, highlighting the delicate structure of that face. It's a look common in the Khan's pets, a pretty gaze that remains defiant yet glazed over, hunger overtaking pride to leave his eyes flitting to Si-chen's bowl in spite himself. To survive, the captive must eat. But, to eat from the bowl of their captors presented a danger in itself. Was it poisoned? Another means of sedation? An aphrodisiac? She watches him puzzle over the dilemma, as most do before deciding the prospect of food is better than starvation, if only to provide energy for a potential escape, as most also come to conclude.

He’s kept upright as Si-chen brings the bowl to his lips and he drinks, timid and uneasy beneath the weight of their attention. It doesn't escape her that the girl's no older than her eldest, and this boy no younger than her second. But, it’s for their sake that she manages, however disgusting she finds it.

\--

The two don't bother with the medicine because they're either distracted by their conversation or by the fact that Ilse has signaled his cooperation sufficiently, taking food by their hands. In the daylight and with a clear mind, he finds that the women are of the same coloration as the rest of the horde, a tone lighter than his people that tanned rather than freckled. They don't remind him of anyone at home, but they feel familiar enough that Ilse thinks he might trust them like he'd trust the Khan, were he only going off of faces. He doesn't know what to make of that, how these people who appear so ordinary can be capable of such cruelties. It almost feels like he's dreaming, if not by how the older woman will tighten her grip, his face still tingling by how intently the Khan had taken his second kiss.

The girl talks like she's daring the woman to slap her, a bird pecking at a crocodile's eye. They'd turn on each other if given the opportunity Ilse thinks, allowing himself to be moved and then crouched over once more, forehead touching the ground. He just needs to figure out how to present it because facing one would at least be easier than two.

He spends the rest of the day watching them, every so once in a while curling his hands over his stomach and hips to soothe their aching, delayed in its sensation. The younger woman whispers to the older for one for the placement of his hands, but she seems to care so little that the younger satisfies herself by smiling sweetly at him instead-- up until it's too much and he breaks eye contact, giving her a good laugh.

They've made his cot up in anticipation of a visitor, clearly, the boy gingerly seating himself upon it when they beckon him. His eyes close, his face grim with meditation. Cho-a's told him of a switch she's found deep within herself— a click she'll hear when she needs to detach from herself to make a wound easier to manage when she's been injured, out hunting or fighting. It isn’t the same but.

"It lets me do what needs to be done" she says, picking apart her traps, nets and knives for cleaning. He has yet to find it, though. Disgust and pleasure and embarrassment still bubbles to the surface in spite of his best efforts.

But, they're related by blood, so she assures him he'll figure it out some day, when he needs it most.

He blinks up to the smell of musk and wet hay. A passing horse with its cart filled with rotting food, Ilse thinks, but it only grows more pungent until it's overwhelmed his senses, raising the hairs on his skin.

The silhouette of a man that isn't a man lords over him. It lets out a sigh, heavy with that smell. He finds his blood gone cold, unable to get himself to look up from the ground without trembling. The door swings open, the thing dragging its hands as it lumbers to him, nostrils flaring, head twitching to take _his_ scent in.

-

The Khan smiles for how shy the boy’s acting, much more demure and to his liking. He must have seen the thing’s cock, swollen, with large, dark balls that swings as it moves, imagining its entire length shoved up his ass, claiming him, filling him with the overwhelm of pleasure. Its approach is slow, deliberate for however the burn of its heat. He swings the door shut, seating himself between the bars. Erhi takes her leave, never the fan of these showings for all her expertise in preparing the chosen. Si-chen pulls up a few more chairs, should a passerby prefer a smaller, more intimate space to witness another pairing. “Light some incense as well,” he says. “He’s a handsome specimen, but he stinks to high heavens.”

The smoke rises in wisps, its fragrance thick with cedar and aloeswood. The girl tucks a few sticks at the base of each bar, pausing every so often to watch. It's annoying having to angle himself just right to catch their movements-- and even more so, when he needs to be in the broad light of day where his subjects can turn at any moment to catch his face, rapt with the shame of desire and envy.

Loyalty depends on respect however divine his claim to power. Though his position allows him the resources to create the spectacle, there was also an expectation of restraint, the reason for his commands fair and even-handed.

The creature takes the boy by his wrist, pulling his arm up to run that soft and pretty hand over its lip. There's a shy tug back before it tightens its grip, a tongue rolling from his palm to the tips of his fingers. It repeats the motion slowly, sensually, its eyes locked on its mate as the other hand finds the boy's hip. The Khan's breath hitches, the boy realizing the futility of struggle and he's brought up by the small of his back, dipped back to reveal a long and lovely neck, waiting to be marked.

He doesn't move when it sucks on the skin, saliva trickling down his tunic, teeth nipping just so he's aware of their sharpness. And, the scene is _sublime_ for how the boy yields, his shoulders tensing from either fear or anticipation, sweet little moans escaping his lips. He’s pushed back over the bed, legs pushed apart just so their brownness frames the creature’s pale fur, cock rubbing up against the thin fabric of the boy’s dress. Their faces meet, a smooth profile to a gnarled, gray face, lost to each other’s beauty. He almost forgets to make a comment like "See? Already better," and "It’s exactly what he needed."

\--

The petting is comforting in its own way, unfocused but catching his nipples just so Ilse whines from the sensation. He blinks back tears for how his face burns the blood coursing from his cheeks down to his hardening cock. It's an ugly, horrible thing that means to fuck him in a way that'll reveal how he's just as shameful for wanting it back. But, as it tucks its head to the juncture between his shoulder and neck, sucking the skin hard enough to leave its mark, he understands that it doesn't matter so long if no one finds him. The smell remains but it’s almost bearable like this, the creature having since hiked up his skirt, its thick, hairy legs brushed fully against his own.

There's a pause to relish in the warmth of their embrace, the friction of its large, pulsing cock pressed up against his. Ilse stares out past its shoulder to the yurt's canopy because it's only as bad as he makes it out to be, things only as real as he permits them.

Gingerly, his arms tighten around its neck, fingers curled into its fur as it enters him, filling him deeply. It's so much like a person, his legs straining from the width of its hips to his, the weight of its body engulfing his frame. He muffles his _a-ah's_ into its skin, the smell sending him spinning from its headiness.

But it's also rougher than a human must feel, its cock gorged thick and gnarled. Ilse's face burns for how a part of him finds the uncanniness exciting and even more pleasurable than the lizard's cock when he takes it. Again, it isn't bad, he repeats this to himself over and over as it starts to thrust. But the hatred is stubborn, his pride unclouded in spite the desperation of his thoughts, for the tittering of the girl and the Khan and how his body yields to this creature out of weakness than of choice.

It lets out a heave for having taken him as its mate, its panting mounting as it finds its angle. Slow and claiming, and then lurid and wild, revealing itself the unthinking animal it-- like the lizard-- always has been.

He doesn't manage as Cho-a had promised, his second time fucked by a monster not so dire enough as to allow him the sanctity of his own mind. He sobs as it fucks him hard, the bed creaking from the force of its pounding and then, satisfied with the position reserved for a man and his wife, takes him into his lap for one suiting a whore. It splays his legs, cum hot and overflowing from where they've joined, bringing to attention how raw and gaping he feels in that movement. He shakes because it keeps going even when he's reached his climax, seeing stars by the rough handling... those leathery kneading his stomach, hips and sides in earnest for another round.

And it does, because Ilse can't stop it as it grinds into him from behind, lapping the side of his face with enthusiasm as the boy struggles to keep from passing out, barely able to focus on his own breathing.

\--

The boy curls in its arm, another dress ruined until the next time Erhi comes around to help, its thumbs rubbing little circles over his bare ass. The Khan has her leave them like this, too much of a romantic to part the lovers in their tender embrace.

The incense has since burned to its end, leaving just the stink of musk and garbage in its wake. Si-chen's nose scrunches, supposing that it's just like the Khan had mentioned, that these savages aren't so picky as long as they're fucked as often as they are fed. He bids her the rest of the afternoon's rest, their tent one of the few he actually enjoys handling personally for however gross and thankless the tasks.

The boy stirs, signaling the creature's attention to him. His head presses against its large, gray chest. She smirks, heaving herself up with a stretch. The girl thinks to ask some questions about how long the Khan needs his alone time and if he was open to ideas for his next session. But, he looks at her in a way that she doesn't quite understand beyond the fact that she shouldn't ask any more questions than she already has.

Si-chen shrugs, because it's no big deal--an old person thing-- Erhi gets like that sometimes. She’s never once asked why Si-chen took this post, has shut her down before she could share much anything about herself. And, what's more frustrating, is how she'll catch the woman looking at her like she feels sorry for Si-chen when Si-chen'd sought this position out herself and _she's_ the one acting like it's some kind of punishment.

The sticks are thrown into the fire, the flames engulfing her offering in an instant. Her hands flex into her pockets and all her stuff’s gathered up into a satchel before the tent's flap draws behind her. No punishment here, just all things to their natural order.


	3. Chapter 3

Ilse rarely dreams, both in the metaphorical and literal sense. Living is synonymous with survival, and it’s a lack of imagination that renders him unable to conceptualize a life beyond what he knows.

His sister. His village. The tundra highlands. Visions of the past, both recent and long-buried.

Sae-gori sat at the edge of Paekmu plateau, a three day's journey horseback to Hwang-son, the only village in their area large enough to warrant a marking on a scholar's map. The province belonged to a relative of King Mu-yeol which meant that Sae-gori did as well-- though, he's never seen the princess much less a member of their society's literati. If they were another one of Father's fairy stories, he wouldn't have known.

His breath rises like smoke past his lips.

Tonight, Sae-gori's rice straw roofs were covered thick with snow, the black rocks atop the woven grain peeking out through the layers of white. He’s gathered the last of the rice paddy straws to throw into the furnace, keeping their floors warm through the evening. Cho-a pats the frost off her cloak, returning just as he finishes. Again, they owed the other nothing aside from basic courtesy. With narrowed eyes she’d asked if he wanted to curry a favor from her.

Ilse shakes his head. The correct answer.

“It’s for me.” He seats himself over the warmest spot in demonstration, the place reserved for their father and the village elders when they’d had reason to visit.

But also a lie.

He didn’t mind the cold as much as Cho-a did and seeing her nose that morning had compelled him to gather as much as he could to keep the heat going. She nods in spite knowing it was, laying on her side and stating a piece of news in exchange.

“They’re close,” she says, “Leader has already sent for reinforcements.”

“Do you think they’ll find us?”

“I doubt it. But it also means they won’t either. There’s nothing here anyways.”

Sae-gori is small, with families that have known each other for generations, and having never once produced a scholar worthy of civil service. The Khanate felt as much a fairy story as the unseen princess and their countless bureaucrats by comparison, their livelihoods based on trade, theft and conquest. The Khan’s people moved in hordes and within those hordes, wings that spread like a great eagle over the plains of Tianxia and Juseon.

They could very well pass Sae-gori, mistaking their backwater homesteads for patches of stone and brush.

She looks to punctuate the statement with “stupid” but he speaks before she can.

“What should we do? If they found us?”

“I’d leave.”

“Ah.” His brows furrow.

She stands, bare feet padding across their living space.

“…

…And you should too.”

He catches her expression from the corner of his eye, hard and dark and shiny like wet coal. Their home is cramped for a family of four but too big for just the two of them and it takes a few more moments for her to reach the doorway to her room. She means to say something else, the tension as taut as the line of her lips. But her hair moves over her back as she excuses herself, supposing the sentiment was best left unspoken.

He must have nodded, turning his back from where she's left.

From this angle, the snow falls in a flurry, the contrast of the biting winter air to a floor only barely warmer.

\--

He stirs against something soft, and it’s strange of Cho-a to have moved him when he’s fallen asleep. There’s a fatigue that overtakes him, like when he’d been riding for hours without his hat or a saddle. Also odd, given that he hasn’t traveled far in years, having sold the last of their animals alongside their parents’ things; but his mind isn’t all the way back to linger on these questions for the pleasant ache between his legs and the rare indulgence of a morning spent sleeping in.

A flutter settles at the base of his half-hard cock, squeezing just so a sigh wanders past his lips. The grip tightens—up and down— and another other hand reaches from behind to linger over his stomach. It’s a motion that builds upon itself, barely perceptible through its languid, sap-like quality. He starts to wake when his hips twitch with interest, sunlight filtering through his eyelashes. Dazed, still, that fatigue holds him in the space between sleep and full consciousness, even as he registers something thick and hard pressed along his back.

A part of him hisses to 'get up.'

And he doesn't understand its urgency until satisfaction gives way to an overwhelming fullness and he is finally, finally pushed from his sleep to the mortifying reality of—

A snarl curls over his ear, a cold nose touching its shell. Ilse thrashes but its arms tighten, holding him still as its slides deeper into him.

Sae-gori has been gone for months now though his mind refuses to dispose of this fact, his people either scattered into the woods or left for dead in their snow-covered houses, just days after Cho-a's announcement. And he was here at the horde's center, lying in his shame, bedded by whatever creature the Khan saw fit for him. After the almas was the mud golem, its entire body oozing clay as it smothered him, dirtied him and took him on the cold earth of its enclosure-- and then right after the lizard from the first night and its companion. He finds softness the most pleasurable and the Khan must have noticed for the contrast of his reactions to those creatures to that ape, rewarding his good behavior with ones whose blood ran just as hot.

“A-ah… H-hah… P-please…”

Their hips meet, tufts of coarse fur to his bare ass. Its cock thickens from within him and its leg has raised over his to lock him in place. He’s thankful he doesn’t meet its eye, having already witnessed it panting over him the night prior. Its face is a cross between a canine and a bison, the tail of a horse and the square pupils of a goat. But it also walked on its hindlegs, its image reminiscent a foreign idol. Ilse’d been made to suckle that cock before taking it last night, knelt as if in worship.

It takes him apart slowly, methodically, a reward for having performed to its liking. Which is stupid of him, Ilse realizes. Regardless the thoughts he assigns to these creatures, they fuck him because there's no other outlet for their cycles. He's been moved to live among them, spending nights instead of sessions to busy them with his body-- up until he's become just as mindless, body pressing into these touches like a cat to the hand of its master.

Its breath passes over him before it turns him over, leverage to drive its cock deeper. He stutters for how it brushes over a sensitive spot just right, a rough tongue lapping over his neck until.

The gate swings open as he cums, the creature still rutting over him as it's pulled off.

Ilse understands enough of their language for his ears to go hot by their assumption, that he'd seduced the monster into another round in spite it having its way with him the entire night, and that he'd go on if it wasn't for them to control his appetite. The guards avert their eyes with a whistle, the Khan motioning him away to his pen, isolated from the rest of them.

\--

The horde doesn't take prisoners.

At least, not in any familiar way. They pillage and loot, and those that take more than what's afforded are placed in locked boxes with holes just large enough for scraps. Ilse'd watched a showing, knelt beside his attendants. It was fascinating, the glimpse into their inner-workings, the condemned made an example to their audience.

One by one each admitted to their crimes.

And then, one by one, they were forced into a crouch and into their respective coffins, all the same in size: small and barely fitting a grown person.

The girl muttered something to him as if sharing a secret or a joke. The woman hissed at her and. Ilse doesn't flinch even as one catches his stare and shouts at him. He knows he's more useful alive than dead and that his captivity is distinct from theirs. He's a pet prized just as any beast of their collection. They will tend to him up until he's outlived his purpose.

Ilse pulls himself up, feeling the presence of his entourage leave him. The space is larger than the yurt, larger than even his room in Sae-gori, albeit darker and smelling thickly of wet hay. His nose wrinkles as he examines himself, grimacing for how raw and slick he still feels.

Their process is too ordered for it to be anything but practiced, and Ilse finds the reason just as easily as he recognizes their process. They're building him up to take more and more, seeing how much of this he can take before he finally breaks. It was far from a spectacle for the masses, however, and Ilse recognizes this too. There were far more at this camp than those that attended his nightly sessions.

He wonders if those before him had figured the Khan out, squinting at the scratches in the wooden bars. But he can't even read in his own language much less another's so it's pointless to even try.

He finds a rag to wipe his legs, slow breaths to ease the ache between them.

…

Ilse dislikes the girl more, but the woman is far more formidable for how easily she’s able to disarm him. He envisions one shouting at him as he watches, her head forced into casket. The other would go quieter, he supposes—but, maybe she’d cry if he was lucky.

He would have liked to hear the sound of that.

\--

When most sought his audience, they'd bowed before his throne, low and wide, lined thick with fur. Their eyes fell upon his silken robe, the color of brushed gold and worked with silver thread, to his ornamented hands and braids, and then to the harem and the officers that flank him, dressed just as richly.

The girl looked. But, she did not bow.

She stands as one twice her stature and wearing finery far beyond theirs, her voice low and circumspect. Had she been born of better clay, she might have been an officer within his wing; perhaps even a general. But, the little Huntress had nothing aside from the furs on her back and the creature bound by her side, a thing which will soon be his, just as all the other creatures she's presented.

The Khan supposes there's a charm for the airs she'll put on before his court, like how a dog will bark to compensate for the shortness of its bite. It doesn’t escape Barsun how much the Huntress reminds him of his captive either—nor any of his attendants present. She’s far uglier, of course; older, with patchy, sunburnt skin and thick, coarse hair. Her eyes are narrow, her jaw square and firm, a structure and coloration that references the beauty of her people, but lacks all their refinement. Her existence must have been harder in the months following his and the other Khans’ campaigns.

So, he humors her, partially because she’s so strange—strong and brave, but ugly and skinny; and partially for the irony of it, inviting her before them to treat her as one would an honored guest.

"Tell us, Huntress," he says, "What have you brought me this time?"

She side-steps, the motion so light it barely makes a sound. Her accent has improved since her introduction. "A bird."

"I have plenty of birds.”

She doesn’t bother searching her vocabulary for something more descriptive, removing the cloth from its head.

“Look.”

His court does nothing to disguise their awe.

Its face was a person’s, the features resembling the Eastern tribes-- plain and flat, with a broad forehead and dark skin that stretched over a finely sculpted torso, so much like the monuments of antiquity. Its round golden eyes twitched but did not blink, and its mouth lay just as slack. It’s far more than what a fool can manage simply mimicking a parrot, and Barsun nearly stands to find a better angle from which to admire its wondrously crooked limbs. In place of hair were mottled feathers, small and spiked from the scalp, but large and spanning down the rest of its body.

The thing bobs its head before screeching suddenly, the knob of its throat moving from its outburst. She returns the cloth, drawing it shut by its strings.

There’s a spark of triumph in the girl’s dark, hard eyes for his mouth hangs slack from staring too. She says, “Ten silver. Two horse. I will pick.”

He recollects himself, his ears hot and ringing. It isn’t much; he’s bred hundreds of ponies since the season’s change. But, he’s mindful that his audience isn’t just the girl, but the court as well, eager to remark on her insolence once she’s left.

“Fifteen silver,” He says. “One horse. You will pick.”

She clicks her tongue, annoyed by the proposition. But, his face must have been stern enough for her to relent.

“Deal.”

Barsun motions for her dismissal, an envoy summoned to lead her to the pasture, and then the creature to the bestiary from behind her.

\--

Two would have been preferable as their soldiers often kept three or four, allowing them to travel at high speeds for days without pause. They were short, stocky animals with strong legs and large heads, their long manes and tails often used for braiding ropes. In all seasons they lived outdoors, searching for food on their own-- even in snow-- returning to their handlers as dogs would to a whistle.

The Huntress has heard plenty about this and that in her travels, like how their children will often learn to ride before they’re able to walk, and that soldiers were beat for mistreating their steeds. How certain tribes will prefer pale horses to dark ones due to their own superstitions, stories of spirits and their curses making the bulk of it. The breeze passes through her hair, unsettling a few strands from her braid. The old man’s kept horses of all colors out of practicality, selling just as many as they’ll keep to ride. She spots a few, galloping and tumbling over the other against the wide blue sky. And, there’s a moment where the girl thinks: she would have liked to have shown her brother something like this.

A stupid thought.

Ilse was likely long dead at this point just like the rest of them.

And, even if he wasn’t, she doubts he’d want to speak to her-- if he could recognize her, anyway. The steppe is different from Sae-gori, with little in the way of wood for shelter and comfort. She’s lucky to have had her traps with her when she’d left; and, even more so, to have found a path that snaked between the houses at the village’s center, taking what the Khan’s people were too hasty or short-sighted to take first. Enough to sustain a month’s journey but not so much as to hold her down, buying Cho-a the time necessary to understand the terrain and what she needed to survive within it.

She catches a stare from the corner of her eye, snapping her out of that trance. She unfurls her hands from the charm at her belt.

“What,” she says flatly.

“Ah.” Her guide averts his eyes. “Nothing.”

She supposes there’s no harm to allowing this child watch as she observed the pasture. Another difference of culture probably, how the Khan’s people look at her the same way as the monsters she’ll bring them. Regardless.

They were a people that could afford to nurse a weak or sick foal to health. Cho-a said she would pick, but the girl also knows there were no wrong answers in spite insisting on it… and knowing about horses was different from choosing one for her own use. She opts for a mare with a coat that reminds her of fresh mud because it came to her as she beckoned it, its approach strong and sure. When she returns with her prize, she is presented her 15 silver on a leather strip and the opportunity to count each shining ridge.

The day is still young as she throws a blanket over the creature’s back and mounts it.

She would be back for her second and third.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And so the plot finally kicks in...

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for getting this far! I take requests because it's just free-flowing xeno until I get bored and the plot kicks in.
> 
> Edit: My boredom kicks in starting Chapter 3. OTL


End file.
